


Happy New Grief

by Vinsachi



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Drama, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Psychology, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 12:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18550195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vinsachi/pseuds/Vinsachi
Summary: Actually, Stark managed to give Killian a priceless New Year's present.





	Happy New Grief

…He’s being late.

All right, he should be given a start – there, in halls sparkling with new-year lights, he’s being bothered by dozens of folks, mostly of no earthly use (‘clones’ as he tagged them), but here and there, some familiar face, another sip of champagne, a reflection of a clingy photoflash from a snow-white smile… Indeed, that’s why he’s being late. Fine. Only five minutes passed – no need to fret over it. He’ll come. For he promised – notably, with sudden gravity.

The wind – in these last minutes, still December-born – bumps into Aldrich, as a bully, whistles mockingly, blows his suit coat flaps open, stretches its nasty icy fingers to a crooked body. Aldrich shrinks, pushes his back to a concrete wall but even the wall seems to push him away, chilling hostilely. 

The roof commands a panorama of the city spangled with lights like a social lion, with gems. Buildings compete in pomposity; all this high class and luxury make him feel sick.

Minutes keep passing by slowly without looking back at a figure trembling by the wall. All right, he’s only fifteen minutes late; the sense of time starts mocking a man if nothing’s happening around. Although, it does happen, just take everyone: chatting, dancing, getting drunk, make friends and lovers, someone’s already vomiting on the pavement at the hotel corner. Everyone lives in this way or that, everyone’s involved in something, even if it is pure garbage; still better than sticking around in some nameless place in the biting wind.

He should have come down and grab a jacket, but it’s too late now. He and Stark would definitely miss each other, and Stark is about to turn up, no doubt; half an hour ain’t a tardity, right?

If he only knew the thing Aldrich was going to share, he would rush here, jumping over three steps. Stark, as well as himself, is hungry for science, for innovations, for prospects of developing something revolutionary. He is going to lunge at Aldrich’s idea, as a hungry predator lunges at the victim. And at the same time, another predator would pull this victim to his side to the best of his poor ability: only the level playing field, or there’s no deal.

Aldrich Killian will be able to carry his point… damn, what a striking prospect it is.

Thirty-three is a positive rational number; thirty-three is the age of Christ; thirty-three isn’t a tardity.

Yah?

It may be forgiven to some chick, of those who are profoundly convinced that unpunctuality is as sexy as bluntness.

How the hell can he know? Chicks don’t get lined up before the cripples. Although, one freak-a-leak keeps pining after him; all meat and drink and holy water to her is lavishing her wacky attention on some poor soul. Give her a Ming dynasty vase – and the bitch gonna break it on purpose, and then mend it hit-or-miss, and put on a shelf in a living room in order to feast her eyes on it; well, strike that. What erratic thoughts are creeping into his head like a nasty bug.

The sound of footstep seems to strike upon his ears; Aldrich stops trembling and stands still, becomes alert, like an unversed youngling in his first ambush. A few seconds pass in a torpor. He scarcely remembers to breathe.

Well of course, he’s hearing things.

And he was planning this meeting thoroughly, calculated all options, nearly involving the probability theory formulas. As the result, everything worked in a somehow different way: having bulled his way through the crowd not without difficulty, he run against Stark as a lunatic fan against a rock star, and sprang as much information on him as he could, before Stark rebuffed him for show, and then, when the goddamn crowd finally thinned out, said shortly, ‘Up on the roof in five minutes’, and was off.

Well, how long he’s being late for now? 

The watch impassively displayed a dry answer to the question of life and other shit: forty-two.

He’s been dumped.

And maybe, nonetheless?..

The wind throws a strand of hair into Aldrich’s face, like dealing him with a sobering slap.

Fat fucking chance. You’ve been dumped; suck it up and limp away from here, you stupid fool.

And Aldrich pushes off the wall and walks forward slowly, tapping his cane against the floor, scarcely getting hooked on some wires. Approaches the end of the roof, leans against the low railing. Hangs over them; entangled locks hit his face again, hindering to look at the sparkling world.

He could easily fall down now. Hang over the rail, even lower, take his legs off the ground …

…He’s always had that wish to jump from the diving tower, but the dream was ridiculous. And it doesn’t even matter that no one would allow him go there, and even if they do, he would scarcely climb it; a thought of undressing in the public eye was the one unbearable for him.

It should be some cine cliché. When once a person climbs a roof and approach it edge dangerously – the crowd appears below in a moment, and folks start bawling the standard lines over each other. That one gonna bark: think of our Lord, another one gonna squeal: pull yourself together, and that guy gonna cock his eye cheerily: fly away mate, nothing more to lose.

Although, it reality no one cares about him.

Or…

He’s simply unseen.

The crowd is growing in size; and at the same time, a thought too elegant for the moment is born in his mind: but there’s not a soul on the street. These idle morons possess no such treasure as a soul. Or perhaps, it’s just a fancy of quirky novelists.

A dissonant choir starts the final countdown of the year 1999. 

‘Ten!’  
 _Just like at the rocket launch._

‘Nine!’  
 _Ain’t that my body  
Fallen to death on the ground?_

‘Eight!’  
 _Gonna count stabs in the heart as well, or gonna lose that count in a blue funk?_

‘Seven!’  
 _A lucky number, they say. Bullshit. How can a number be lucky if a man himself can’t?_

‘Six!’  
 _And the snow is black._

‘Five!’  
 _Woah, a man has given another guy a whack on the head. They at least give a shit about each other._

‘Four!’  
 _And is there any counting before a water jump?_

‘Three!’  
 _Interestingly, if everyone counts silently before blowing his brains out._

‘Two!’  
 _And, moreover…_

‘One!’  
 _Moreover, they’re not worthy._

Bombs of the clocks have been zeroed out. 

Hooray.

And yet, it’s so good when nobody sees you. How convenient it is…

Hooray.

For the first time in life, eyes of a youngling lying up in ambush flare with a promise of wild fire.

Aldrich Killian smirks to himself. Pushes off the railing and turns to the door.

Enough for him.

He looks down – there must be a wire somewhere – yes, there it is, - and his attention is being called to his own shadow. Sharp broken lines don’t seem ugly anymore; their nature even appears somewhat fantastic.

He’s already about grabbing the frozen handle, but at the last moment, the increasing sound of footsteps makes him whid into the shade – and he’s able of being dexterous if really required. Two men are coming. Whispering and laughter are heard. The doors is swung open and slammed against the wall; one of unwanted guests swears passionately, in the southern manner; the other man giggles, then answers something, first in whisper, then aloud. He’s got a specific arrogant West Coast accent.

‘What ‘bout the compromise: speaking English and laughing Italian?’ 

‘And I’m out in the cold again, right?’

‘Not necessarily. You oughta just amuse me as often as you can.’

The one who oughta amuse draws the American to himself and kisses him deeply, hands hungrily caressing the toned body, and in the end, scoops him almost in a pirouette. And the other guy never stops laughing – carelessly but no way innocently; finally, ceases, breathes out, ‘wow.’ In a moment of silence, metal chink is heard.

‘Hey, maybe not here?’

‘Ah come on Justin, nobody sees.’

Killian smirks. ‘Nobody’ sees everything. He’s just not interested. He would leave but there’s only one door, and there’s no chance to get to it stealthily. And he doesn’t feel a strong wish to come across this couple, like torn out of some stupid movie. Even their looks match perfectly: one is taller, another a bit shorter, one is dark-haired, another blonde, both have a slap-up turnout, both are moving with some casual chic…

No, really, this ain’t interesting. But the stage is set, and he is forced to behold the Italian kneeling in front of the American; well, at least, no explicit details can be seen from this point of view, but this head thrown back, this long golden fringe, this unmeant complacency of a smile, the sharp black shadow from the defenselessly prominent Adam’s apple make a sumptuous scene. If some lucky paparazzi appeared to be here, he would capture loads of juicy pictures able to provide him for a year of comfortable life.

How cheap it is.

And how downright the man is when he considers himself unseen. How defenseless – come and use him, observe, memorize, and record. 

And how important it is to be able to hide, to pop up in the right place at the right time. And let just some costless episode from other folks’ intimate life is now unfolding before Killian’s eyes – it’s just an example destined to steer the thoughts already hit by some fever this evening.

What’s the right name for the one able to hide professionally? Which advantages has a shadow, hidden by another shadow, over the cocksy beauty caressed by the subservient lights?

Killian pays already zero attention to fuss at the opposite wall. And let pain is circulating in his stiffen muscles – coolness in spreading in his conscience at the same time.

The deadly thrombus of last firework explodes in the sky.

There now, the evening was a success.

***

High in snow-capped predawn mountains, men in black clothes are clanging heavy bells in synch.

However, it’s just a telephone. And the day broke four hours ago.

Killian picks up the phone and is completely awake at the sound of Maya Hansen’s crisp and all-business voice. They quickly arrange a meeting in order to discuss a possibility to start a joint research project.

Life starts rushing in the required direction.

It’s classic, the mirror is showing all those ugly stuff in the morning, but he has to spend some time in front of it with a purpose to put in order the disheveled locks, thick and heavy, and to scrape them into a neat ponytail.

‘The year two thousand will pass under the sign of the Metal Dragon!’ the radio informs joyfully.

Well, happy new grief to you, world.


End file.
